


Carry That Weight

by CherryBlossomTide



Series: Once There Was A Way To Get Back Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt: Sherlock's return to Baker Street triggers a recurrence of the eating disorder John developed as a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry That Weight

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: This fic contains references to eating disorders, bullying, sexual harrassment and assault.

John watches as below him two men run down an alleyway. It's a familiar scene, although he hasn't seen it from this angle before. He seems to be floating above things, trapped in an odd sort of cloud. But he can see quite clearly, can recognise the way Sherlock sweeps along the alley, coat flaring, effortlessly quick. 

Or at least, it would be effortless, if not for the stodgy little man shackled to his arm, dragging at his momentum. John watches with a kind of helplessness as the smaller man wheezes for breath, his broad face sweating. He's too heavy, John realises with strange clarity. How hasn't he noticed before? This strange cloud seems to have given him with the ability to see things as they truly are. Were.

John feels a stab of fear - the men below are in terrible danger. There is a Creature stalking London, a terrible beast with open jaws and glowing eyes. And it's looking for Sherlock and John.

No, wrong. It isn't interested in John - it only wants Sherlock. It has been dreaming of feasting on smooth white limbs, of ripping into firm flesh.

"Run faster!" John yells at his other self, who struggles forward, clutching at friend's coat for support. It's no use. The other John isn't fast enough. Those thick flabby limbs drag through the evening air as if he were trying to wade through water.

Sherlock's face is pale, desperate.

"Come _on_ , John!"

They've reached a fence. Sherlock vaults over it with ease and then pauses.

"We're going to have to work together, Sherlock." John says.

Sherlock's face is deathly white, eyes wide with fear. "Quick, John. It's coming for me. I don't want to die."

The other John tries to haul himself over the fence, but his arms are shaking with the weight, his leaden body pulling him down into the ground.

Sherlock's face grows desperate, and he tries to pull himself out of the handcuffs, metal scraping at his wrists as he tries to free himself.

"You're too heavy, John." He whispers. "I'm going to die."

" _Don't_." Both Johns cry out, pointlessly. But it's too late. The Creature is already behind John. He can feel it breathing down the back of his neck. With one bound it overtakes him, leaping over the fence and falling on Sherlock. John can see paws on Sherlock's shoulders, sharp teeth ripping in to Sherlock's throat…

***

John wakes with a jolt. For a moment all he can think about is breathing, trying to blink away the picture of Sherlock bleeding. He looks around him. He is lying on the sofa, a duvet half draped over him. The TV is on, but muted, casting a flickering blue light over the room.

"Bad dream?" Harry appears in the doorway, wrapped in a ratty looking dressing gown. Christ, he must have woken her.

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"It's no problem. You know I'm a night owl, anyway."

It's true. Insomnia runs on the Watson family. Along with a few other, even less pleasant traits. John rubs at his forehead, breathing heavily.

"Cup of tea?" Harry suggests, a little wryly, and John knows she is wishing she could offer him something stronger. To be honest, he does too.

"That would be great."

But when Harry brings him the tea, John finds himself unable to drink it. The hand that lifts the cup to his lips feels weighted, heavy. _Disgusting_ a voice seems to whisper in his ear. He shivers convulsively and lowers the cup back onto its coaster.

When he looks up Harry is staring at him.

"John."

John bites his lip. This is why he hates being around his sister. He tells himself that it's because of her drinking, her indiscretion, her penchant for screwing up relationships. But, while all those things are annoying, they aren't the real reason he doesn't like to be around her. She is the only person still living who knows. The only person who remembers. However many years have passed where John has remained healthy, eaten right, kept his weight up, Harry still looks at him with that lurking worry in her eyes as if he might sicken and collapse on her at any moment.

"I'm fine. Just less thirsty than I thought I was."

"I know that look," Harry says quietly. "You forget. I was there every meal time when you –"

John looks away, clenches his fists. He remembers it too. Sitting at that too cramped kitchen table, feeling like he was lit up with a spotlight. Everyone watching, judging every bite. Trying to choke the food down even though his mind was telling him how ugly it would make him, how gross and fat. How little he deserved to be there, sitting with the people he loved.

John bites the corner of his lip, hard. He knows that Harry is right. He's worked too hard to get better to throw it all away now. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted it. As much as he wants, right now, to go to the bathroom and make himself throw up (and, God, he wants it badly) he has to be strong. To be well.

"I'm fine, Harry," His voice is tight and he forces himself to smile. "Got any biscuits?"

 

***

John does well. Or at least, that's what people tell him, in tones that mingle pity with surprise. He does everything he's supposed to do. Goes to therapy dutifully every week, reads all the recommended books about coping with bereavement. He eats three balanced meals a day, and takes long walks in the park. He goes on dates, meets his mates down the pub, talks about his experiences with Sherlock in neutral even tones. It wasn't his fault. He didn't drive Sherlock to his death. He isn't fat. He puts the bathroom scales away, in a shadowy corner at the back of the airing cupboard. He locks the door and gives Mrs Hudson the key for safekeeping.

He isn't happy. He won't ever be happy again, but he is coping.

And then, one very ordinary day, just as John has shuffled into the kitchen to make a post-work cup of tea, there is a knock at the door. John blinks, surprised that he hadn't heard footsteps on the stairs, and goes to open it.

Sherlock is standing in the doorway. Tall and slim and pale faced – and alive. John blinks at him.

"John."

Sherlock looks very slightly awkward, not that an ordinary observer would notice. But John who knows Sherlock so well, can read into the slight tension in his shoulders the way his eyes dart from feature to feature on John's face.

"Hello," says John, because it seems polite and because he can't think of anything else to say.

Sherlock breathes out. "I didn't die," he says in a rush. "It was staged – a magic trick. I tried to tell you but I - well, I needed to do some things first. On my own. I hope you can understand."

John tries, he honestly does, but at this particular moment there doesn't seem to be an awful lot that makes sense.

"I, uh," he begins and then stops. He frowns. Looks down. Sherlock's shoes. Gleaming patent leather. Slim and bright and beautiful like everything else about his friend. _Alive._

"I just put the kettle on," he says, at last. Sherlock grins at him.

*** 

The next half an hour is one of the best of John's life. They sit in the kitchen and sip tea, and Sherlock tells him all about how he managed to fake his own death (it was amazing and John tells him so); how he travelled around the world under various false identities, steadily unpicking the threads of Moriarty's criminal web and destroying them.

Sherlock grows animated as he talks and John watches in awe. He'd forgotten how _brilliant_ Sherlock is, how his pale skin glows with enthusiasm, the air around him snapping with that peculiar electricity his friend seems to generate. He is beautiful, slim and sharp and powerful. John could watch him all day. He could watch him forever. At last, Sherlock tells John about the assassin he closed in on only to find him _in flagrante_ with his own mother-in-law and John dissolves in giggles, Sherlock chuckling along with him.

"Fancy a takeaway? I could murder a dhansak right now." Sherlock asks, and John nods, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Sounds perfect."

Sherlock picks up a phone and places their order, correctly deducing what John wants, just as he always did. John can't stop himself grinning.

Sherlock whirls around the room dramatically and collapses on the sofa.

"I am starving, John. Starving.You really can't imagine what being on the run does for your digestion. I've been living off _airport food_."

"How horrifying." John says, with mock sympathy.

Sherlock shoots him a quelling look.

"It was a very great hardship. You couldn't possibly understand, living here with half the best restaurants in London on your doorstep - _and_ our favourite Chinese down the road. I was out catching murderers while you were sitting around and getting fat on takeaways. I think you must have put on at least two stone since I last saw you."

And just like that, the glow around them dissipates. John feels something cold slide down into his stomach.

_You're so heavy, John._

No. _No_ , Sherlock was joking, he was _joking_ , he didn't think John was fat, or disgusting, and anyway John hasn't put on weight. Well, maybe a little. How was he to know? He'd locked the scales in the airing cupboard.

"I think I need to take a shower." Sherlock muses. "It was a long journey. Call me when the food gets here."

John nods wordlessly as Sherlock gets up and walks into the bathroom. He tries to quell the surge of panic that hits him as Sherlock closes the door.

 _He's left you again_ the voice in his ear hisses. _You've disappointed him. How could he want to be friends with you, looking like you do?_ John grips onto the counter, tries to breathe. He can hear the sound of the shower being switched on, water running.

_It wasn't Moriarty; it was you. He left to get rid of **you**. You're just a disgusting lump, aren't you? Boring him with your ridiculous chatter, slowing him down. How could he achieve anything worthwhile with you by his side?_

Oh Christ, he's having a panic attack. Spots of light flash in front of his eyes, and his chest aches. Sherlock can't find him like this, can't see him being so weak. John forces himself to slow his breathing rate, sucking air in though his nose and exhaling slowly though pursed lips.

_Disgusting fat little fuck._

He needs to calm down. Needs something to calm him down or God knows what Sherlock will think when he returns from his shower. After everything Sherlock's been through he doesn't need a friend who's in pieces, who can't cope. He needs a partner, a helper. John is his only friend and he needs him to be strong.

_You're so weak._

There is only one way John knows, one thing that will help him feel calm again. But he can't do it here. It's too disgusting.

John calculates. Sherlock should be in the shower another five minutes at least. He has enough time.

John slips shakily down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. He lets himself out the back way, into the alleyway behind the bins. The stench of decaying rubbish rises to meet him.

John puts out a hand to balance himself as he learns forward. Eases two fingers down his throat. It's quicker than he remembers. The right spot is hit, his stomach clenches and then revolts, and is coughing out a flood of vomit into the gutter. He does it again. Again and again. John wants to empty himself out, to purge himself of everything he's eaten since Sherlock left.

When he's finished he crouches against the wall, breathing heavily. His head swims.

***

_John Watson asked me out. Can you believe it?_

_God, he's so gross. Can you imagine shagging him?_

_You should go for it, Trix. Just imagine the fun you could have. It would be like having your own trampoline._

John hadn't realised he was fat before that day. He'd known he was on the heavy side, of course, and sometimes people teased him, good natured stuff, really. He joked about it himself. He thought it fit with his persona – the laid back funny kid with a bit of chub. He knew he wasn't exactly cool, but he'd thought that people liked him, in general. He hadn't realised that they found him disgusting. Not until he made the biggest mistake of his school career and asked out one of the most popular girls in his year.

It'd seemed like it would be all right at the time. Trixie smiled at him apologetically and told him she didn't think they were right for each other, and John had left the conversation feeling pretty OK – he'd known it was a long shot, anyhow, and she'd been nice about it.

Then she told her friends. Word spread round the school like wildfire and suddenly, the laughter had increased in volume and grown shaper, more spiteful. Kids he didn't even know stopped him in the corridor to call him trampoline man, and ask him if he even knew how to find his cock through all that blubber. John tried to play it down, and laugh along with them, but that only seemed to make them more vicious. He'd broken one of the unwritten rules of teenagerdom, defied a pecking order that he hadn't realised existed – an ugly kid going after one of the pretty girls. He wouldn't be forgiven.

They started seeking him out at break times. Sometimes they would pretend to offer him food. Other times they just threw it at him. Or worse, demanded he got on his knees and begged them for it. He didn't want to but there were a lot of them, and stronger than he was. In the changing room after PE a group of boys mobbed him, stripped his clothes off and poked at his belly. They dragged him into the loos and made him stand in front of the mirror. Grabbed at his belly and made it jiggle. Made them repeat after them. _I'm Trampoline man. I'm revolting._

It was always worse if they saw him eating. The boys would sneer and hector him and the girls would pretend to retch in disgust. _Look at him, stuffing food down his face. No wonder he's so big. God, he's making me feel sick._

John stopped bringing food to school. He'd throw away the contents of his lunch on the walk to school, guilty, sweating, praying no one he knew would walk past and catch him with food in his hands. He passed the school days in a blurry hunger haze. The insults didn't get any fewer but they hurt less when John was like this. Lack of food had numbed him.

"You've lost weight, Johnny." His mum said, clearly pleased.

"You're looking good son." His dad clapped him on the back. John felt warm and proud and he resolved to himself he's never let himself get any fatter. He'd stopped eating lunch or snacks. He could get cut out even more and then maybe, eventually, the kids at school would like him again.

But the hunger had begun to really hurt. He woke up at night feeling hollow and desperate. He couldn't stop himself. He went into the kitchen and grabbed what food he could, stuffing it down. A piece of bread, handfuls of raisins, half a packet of ham. He swallowed a six pack of fruit yoghurts, one after another. When he'd finished he lay on the kitchen floor, the food a lead weight on his stomach. Tears pricked his eyes. He was a failure. He'd probably put the weight back on already.

He ran to the bathroom and sobbed for a long time. How could he have been so weak? He wanted to take it back, to never have eaten any of that meal. Then he realised – he could take it back. It took a while, using his toothbrush, to invoke his gag reflex but when he did the food spilled out of him, into the bowl of the toilet. He stared at it a while, taking deep relieved breaths, and pulled the chain.

The next day John felt like he was walking on air. He'd found a way to eat and not get fat. To cheat and win.

"What are you smiling at, fatty?" one of the boys asked him as he walked in the school gates, but it sounded half hearted.

"You're looking good, trampoline man." The girl beside him said. "You lose some weight?" John looked at her, scanning her face for sarcasm. But she seemed sincere.

"You're right, Liz, he has." the boy said. "I hadn't noticed. Good on ya, fatty." And he clapped John on the shoulder.

***

John felt strong and powerful and free. He didn't need food anymore. If he ate he could easily just get rid of it. And he was becoming thin. He was becoming good again. People smiled at him now, in the hallway, laughed at his jokes. They still called him trampoline man, sometimes, but the insult had lost its edge, become almost fond. It got hard to think sometimes, and sometimes it felt oddly as if he was floating, the world around him hazy and unclear. But that didn't matter, not when he was so happy.

And then somehow, without him noticing, things began to change. The faces around him grew pinched and worried. His mother kept pleading with him at meals to eat. John didn't want to upset her so he did as he was told, forcing the food down and going to the loo to throw it up later. His classmates grew oddly hushed and began avoiding him. One day his gym teacher took him aside to speak to him but John couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. Everything was too bright and too loud and there was something the matter with his hearing. The room seemed to be flickering oddly.

The next thing John was fully aware of was sitting in hospital listening to his mother sobbing.

"I don't know what we did wrong," she said, and the doctor hushed her.

"Adolescence is a difficult time." The doctor said. "Don't worry. Give us time and we'll set him straight."

They did as well. Pumped him full of nutrients when he wouldn't eat, found him a therapist, made a rehabilitation plan with him. He couldn't understand at first, his brain was too messed up by the stress of starvation but slowly things became clearer. And John realised he'd screwed up. Hurt the people around him. He had to get better. He owed it to everyone, to his mother, who still believed it was her fault, to his father, to Harry. So John worked at it. He worked really hard.

And now it's ruined, John realises, staring down at the puddle of sick in the alley. He tries to tell himself that it's just a minor relapse – he's had relapses before, brief, conquerable. But this time is different - he knows somewhere deep in his bones. He won't be able to come back from this.

Behind him he hears the doorbell ring, and Sherlock's voice, muffled by distance, call out.

"John, get that, will you?"

John breathes in, pulls himself to his feet. He has a piece of chewing gum in his pocket. He puts it in his mouth to cover the smell of vomit. He can do this. No one has to know.

***

John is a little surprised by how easy it is to fool Sherlock. But then, perhaps he shouldn't be. Sherlock is on a high after his return, roaming around London with a grin on his face, dashing around crime scenes and insulting Scotland Yarders with a relish. He doesn't have the time to spend analysing John's eating habits.

John still cooks for him, naturally, and they have the usual arguments about Sherlock eating regular meals. John enjoys cooking, enjoys the smell and the texture of food in his hands, all the while feeling proud at his own resistance, never taking a bite. Sherlock accepts the meals John makes without a glance, absorbed in the newpapers, or his website or the latest experiment. Sometimes he ignores the food, sometimes he takes a few absent minded bites. John feels like a worshipper making offerings to a capricious god. It makes him feel so good when Sherlock eats his food. As if with every bite Sherlock is saying _I know the sacrifices you have made and I accept them._

John knows this isn't healthy. He knows he's screwing up. But he can't shake the feeling that somehow by doing this he's earning his right to be here, in Sherlock's presence. If he ate, properly, the way they all want him to, he'd wake up the next morning to find that Sherlock had disappeared. He can't do that. He can't do that again.

Anyway he doesn't feel ill. In fact, he feels fantastic. The colours seem brighter than they've ever been, people's faces seems kinder. When he runs after Sherlock, on the tail of some criminal or other he doesn't feel heavy. He feel like he's flying.

And whenever it becomes too much, and the dark spots begin to gather in the corners of his vision, he makes himself take a break. A sit down, a breath, a small mouthful of food (he can always throw it up later). Then he can get up again, as invincible as ever. He has taken the scales back from Mrs Hudson and weighs himself obsessively. The pounds fall off. He feels as light as a feather.

*** 

"John," Sarah's voice is soft. "Is everything OK?"

"What?"

"You seem a little absent minded, recently. Mrs Brighouse said you forgot her prescription again."

"Oh, god." John says. "Sorry, Sarah."

She smiles at him. "I suppose I should have expected this," she says "What with Sherlock being back and everything. Is he running you ragged again?"

"A bit, yeah." John says ruefully.

"Well, tell him to ease off a little. I need you functional." Sarah frowns suddenly. She's noticed something. God, what has she noticed?

"Are you absolutely sure you're all right?"

"Of course, why?"

"You look a bit – gaunt. Have you lost weight?"

"It's the exercise. Running after Sherlock again. I'm not used to it. I'd gotten all flat and flabby." He smiles at her.

"Right." John can see Sarah's eyes narrow, running up and down his body, and he feels suddenly sick. He remembers what it was like to be on the receiving end of that kind of gaze. Clinical. Assessing. Far too knowing. He wishes he'd worn baggier clothes.

"I have to dash, Sarah. New case. I'll see you tomorrow."

"OK." Sarah still looks thoughtful. John forces himself to grin at her carelessly and rushes out of the office.

 

Outside John is forced to duck into an alley. His head is swimming, spots dancing in front of his vision. Sarah's suspicion has brought home to him what he already knew. He can't keep this up. People will notice. They'll send him back to the hospital again. And what will happen to Sherlock? He'll be alone. He won't have anyone to make sure he eats, to protect him from all the people in London who want to take a crack at him. Moriarty wasn't the only one.

He can't have Sherlock in danger again, he just can't.

He has to eat.

But John finds that he can't. It is every bit as difficult as it was in his rehab, except this time no one but John is watching, checking he eats as he should. God, when did his hands become so heavy? Everything he eats drags on his stomach like a lead weight. Brings tears of guilt and frustration to his eyes. He has to go to the toilet and throw it up again. He can't stop himself. He can't.

The exhilaration is gone. Its becoming harder and harder to drag himself out of bed in the mornings. He has to do it in stages now, pausing between sitting up and moving his feet out of bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning. He has to beg off going out with Sherlock. His fingers are too unsteady to be handling a gun. He'd probably end up shooting himself in the foot. He can't even imagine running.

John sits with a sandwich on the plate in front of him. _You can't go on like this. Eat. **Eat.** _

"I really wish Lestrade would stop plying me with such simple cases – this last one took all of fifteen minutes to solve. They aren't even trying anymore. It's ridiculous." Sherlock says, carelessly, shrugging off his coat as he walks into the kitchen. "Still, I'm home in time for lunch. Are you going to eat that?"

"Go ahead." John mutters, hating himself. Sherlock sweeps the sandwich off his plate, pops it into his mouth. John watches him chew, watches his throat move as he swallows. God, he feels – what does he feel? Sherlock is speaking to him again, but his voice is muffled. The world around him is tilting. Water. He needs some water. John stands up, awkwardly, gripping the counter. Steps towards the sink. Why is this so difficult? His head is swimming. He reaches out to grab the edge of the sink and misses, the world flickering, sparking, then disappearing in front of his eyes. He thinks he hears someone calling his name.

*** 

John knows he is in a hospital bed before he opens his eyes. Something about the quality of the air around him, the distant sound of machines bleeping, phones ringing, nurses speaking in bored tones. And two voices, rather closer.

"-you're saying this is my fault."

"He did take your –ah– departure rather hard. And your return, I suppose."

"He seemed fine. He was _happy_ to see me."

"Of course he was. But you of all people should know, Sherlock, human beings are complicated creatures. I did advise you to talk to him."

"I did talk to him. He - listened." There is a long silence. When Sherlock speaks again his voice is unsteady. "I don't know how I missed this."

"We all did, Brother. It is inadvisable to beat yourself up."

John hears Sherlock snort, and he wants to smile, but that's wrong, it's all wrong. Sherlock is unhappy, and that is his fault.

He opens his eyes. The two brothers are standing at the foot of his bed. Sherlock is standing rather closer to Mycroft than John has ever seen him do before, leaning inward as if for reassurance. Mycroft notices John first and his eyes gleam slightly, before he turn,s touching Sherlock of the arm.

"I'll leave the two of you to talk."

Sherlock turns, face paler than usual, to meet John's eyes. They look at each other for a moment. A look of something like fury passes over Sherlock's face before passing and leaving it blank again.

John wonders if Sherlock is going to yell at him. Actually, being on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's tirades might not be a bad thing right now. At least it would feel normal.

"You going to tell me I'm an idiot?" John asks, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock lips tighten, but he doesn't answer. Instead he turns, grabs a glass of water from the bedside table and holds it to John's mouth. John forces himself to take deep gulps. He suspects Sherlock might ram the glass down his throat if he doesn't.

When he's finished, Sherlock moves to sit beside him. He stares at John for a long moment before abruptly reaching over and grasping it in a bone crushing grip.

"No." he says softly.

"No what?"

"No, I'm not going to tell you that you're an idiot."

"Oh."

There is a long silence and Sherlock just keeps on looking at him. John shifts uncomfortably. God, his head aches.

"I guess they'll put me through rehab again." he says, because someone ought to say something.

Sherlock's tilts his head, critically passing his eyes over John. "You were fifteen years old. Bullied at school because of a barely existent weight difference, you resorted to starvation as a way to improve your image. Anorexia, bulimia, possible laxative abuse. You were admitted to hospital once and then underwent several months of rehab. It is obvious from the way you button your shirt. Any idiot ought to have seen it."

John struggles to sit up, then gives up at the sharp stab of pain from his head. "Don't listen to Mycroft, Sherlock. It's not your fault. Like you said, I had this problem long before I met you."

There is a long silence. Sherlock tightens his fingers one by one around John's hand as if trying to crush John's bones individually.

"I won't let it happen again." he states. His tone contains more than a hint of threat.

John winces. "Don't." he said. "I know I have to eat properly – and I'll do better, I really will. Just don't force me. I can't stand it."

Sherlock glares at him. "I wouldn't be so crude. You know my methods, John."

John stifles a grin. "You're going to deduce me back to health?"

Sherlock scowls at him. "Something like that."

John feels his smile fade. "I'm sorry."

"Don't do that." Sherlock snaps.

"Don't do what?"

"You have nothing to apologise for."

"I do. I - scared you." It's getting difficult to think again. His head feels muzzy and painful.

Sherlock glares. "This is _precisely_ why you will never make a detective, John. You focus on all the most irrelevant details. It's sloppy thinking and I won't allow it." Sherlock leans forward, face seeming to sharpen with anger. "You, John, have been desperately ill and none of your supposedly perceptive friends even noticed. _That_ is the salient point. _That_ is what you should be worrying about. My emotional status in unimportant."

"'Tis important." John insists, and his voice is beginning to slur again. "It is to me. Sherl-" he can't seem to get his tongue around the words. His vision is blurring.

"John." Sherlock says, and his voice sounds far away again. "Don't pass out on me. John."

But John knows its too late. The world is sliding away from him rapidly shifting into darkness. As he falls away he hears a voice close in his ear. Sherlock's voice.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case anyone is interested, the title for this fic comes from this song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qP4Ye15J0Y .
> 
> This fic was inspired by this prompt: _John was a chubby child. He was bullied terribly in school. So, John began to lose weight. Yet, with the bullying and his parents constant comments John spirals into a cycle of binging and purging. He loses the weight. Everyone is so happy and proud. But the Binging and purging is out of control. John is sent to a rehab center and regains his control.It's a year after Sherlock has returned from The Fall. As John and Sherlock are eating take-away, Sherlock makes an "innocent" remark about how much weight John's gained (he hasn't gained any) and how much he seems to be enjoying his meal.The cycle begins again. Sherlock notices nothing until John collapses in their flat. Prompters note: NO "Sherlock is traumatised/injured/etc. by his time during the fall"_


End file.
